


Companion

by winterysomnium



Series: Zombie apocalypse AU [2]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It sounds … doable. Why do you need my help though?” he asks and Jason thinks — this might work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Companion

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of the zombie AU, mostly dialogue this time. If you have any ideas about what should happen in this AU or what you would like to see happen, feel free to message me. Hope you will like the story!

The night will settle safe around them, around Tim,for tonight, for what’s left of the hours nestled in his head, labeled for rest but many times repurposed, stolen to run, to hide, to tiptoe to rooms for food, for shaky shelters without sleep.

Tonight will be safe, will be scented after clean blankets, forgotten in drawers, compressed within the cage of his arms, brushing against his chin and nose, scents of a world before, scents of home, distant and stepping on the ladder, he hands them to Jason, halfway up, Jason already up in the attic, a flickering, rickety candle whispering about bones under his skin, about muscles, tense and soft, tired but strong, about stories written, stories untold.

(Tim knows nothing but his name. Nothing but that he has helped him. Knows nothing but that.)

He finishes his journey, carefully pulls the ladder up, plops onto the softer ground, next to Jason, half a meter away, half a meter close and they can’t heat their food much but it’s enough to warm their fingers, enough to not feel without hope, enough to weight less in their stomach and Jason tries to read the label on his can, brings it up his nose, already open and moves it away with a look of resigned distaste a sniff later, a shudder climbing up his shoulders, the displeasure spreading through his skin.

“The only thing on this planet I don’t eat and this can is full of it,” he mumbles with a sigh, takes his fork with all intent of showing it down his throat anyway and Tim pauses to look at him, to find out what is in the can. “What is it?” he asks, curious and with an unpleasant feeling on his mouth Jason answers, obviously unhappy about all of it.

“Mushrooms,” he says and Tim makes a sound of understanding, hesitates for barely a second, for barely a thought.

“Want to trade? Mine’s just beans and tomato sauce. I haven’t eaten from it yet either.” he offers, stretches his arm towards Jason, _genuine_ and Jason can’t decide if Tim’s nice for the sake of it or if he’s a hidden motive pressed to another pressed to _another_ and maybe he’s lulling Jason to trust, but: _why_? _To what ends_? and maybe he’s — maybe he’s over thinking all of this, splendidly.

(Isn’t he?)

“Do you eat mushrooms?” Jason asks, handing his can over, taking Tim’s, grasping it safer within his palm and Tim opens the lid further, digs in with his fork, hums around the food in his mouth.

“Sure do. I’m not _that_ nice, you know?” he answers but Jason thinks this kid might be, might be _that_ nice, might be too nice, too caring, too noisy, in everyone’s business, trading problems, the kind of person to help without asking, rising anger, the kind of person that will burn with it until it dissipates, until they can brush the ashes away from their skin.

(Jason thinks Tim’s exactly that kind of person, for sure.)

“Thanks, anyway,” Jason answers, not too loud and it rests between them for the whole of the meal, doses the atmosphere with a warmth they can’t explain as they scrape at the bottom of their cans and they hear scratches around the outside of the house, twigs or fingers or mice and later Jason gets up to secure the ladder for the night, places it so neither can kick it down in their sleep and Tim takes out a map and a pen, copies an inch of a road. It’s progress.

(It’s a diary.)

“Where is your Dad supposed to be?” Jason asks, noticing the map, squatting down to adjust his pillow and the blankets tangled in a heap and Tim glances at him, glances at the map, his fingers subconsciously point at a dot.

“California, Stanford.” He taps the paper and it crackles, with a familiar, soothing sound.

Tim studies the outlines of the world.

“Dad’s an archeologist. In June, he went to a university convention to present his research. He should be in the area,” he answers, caps the pen, moves his fingers away.

Jason sits beside his bed, on the floor, pushes the empty can farther away from his knees. “What if he left to look for you, like you are?” he asks and Tim — Tim knows that that’s possible, too. That that’s an option.

(He considered it, from the start.)  

“I wrote messages to him. On the road. He’d do the same. I know he would,” Tim says and Jason rests against the wall, looks at the map, nodding. “I heard California was doing good,” he answers and his look travels, all the way to Tim’s face, to his freckled skin. He finds something soothing in him, something he can trust, knows that before, he’d want to lose himself in boys like this, would want to lose himself in girls who made his palms sweat and wore words so beautiful he wanted to frame their sound, in people he had loved for all their were but — he’s branded now. (And the human world is mostly bones. Mostly bodies that won’t rot.)

And Jason mostly belongs with them, too.  (Doesn’t he?)

He looks away.

“Actually, I’m headed there too,” he says, quietly, too aware of Tim, of the ache healed over months and months, too aware of the shivering world. “I’m headed to California, too.”

“Are you looking for someone as well?” Tim asks and Jason thinks _no_. _No, it’s the opposite. They might be looking for me._

(And he just wants to go home.)

“Yes and no,” he answers instead. “I’m looking for _something_. A medical center. A research facility. Many aren’t active anymore, but I know that one is,” he adds and Tim tenses, lets the thoughts sink in.

“A medical center? Are you — sick?” he searches for symptoms and Jason knows he doesn’t have any. There are none.

(The bite itches, underneath his clothes.)

“I’m fine. But I have something important to show them. To _offer_. _And_ I have an idea how to get there faster, too. But I’d need your help,” he turns to Tim and Tim — responds, surprised.

“What’s the idea?” he asks and Jason gestures towards the map, to the area opening in front of the end of the inky road.

“If you look closely, there are a lot of open roads and terrain ahead of us. Miles and miles of roadways that are easily accessible. I think the best idea right now would be to find a car and hit the road. Many of them are still fully functional and you can find stores with new car batteries sitting on the shelf in nearly every town, if all the original ones would be dead. I can’t say it would always be safe or that the roads would be always clear but we can go around most of the jams thanks to the terrain and many cars we would drive by could be a source of gas, too. If we gather enough food, with reasonable stops, we might make it all the way to California, or at least to the mountains on the border. What do you say?” he asks, looking up and Tim nods, thoughtful, sparing a glance.

“It sounds … doable. Why do you need my help though?” he asks and Jason thinks — _this might work_.

(It really might.)

“For safety, mostly,” he says. “A car makes noise. They will be following us. Maybe not far but a lot of them from the near area, for sure. What if I get too tired and can’t drive to a remotely safe place? I’d be stuck with a horde of people trying to eat me and nothing but glass protecting me. With two drivers, there is a higher chance of that not happening. It’s safer. Not to mention a second person is someone to pay attention to the sides of the road, too, not only to what’s ahead. It’s someone to guard the other when you put gas in the car. It’s someone to help if we get stuck anyway or if we get ambushed. I know the roads around here. I’ve driven through several states on my bike. It can work, if we make it to.” Is what he says and Tim focuses on the map before he looks up at Jason and nods, offering his hand.

“I’m in. For however long it will take to get where we both need to go,” he answers and Jason takes it, content with the result and he shakes Tim’s hand, clasped around his, firmly, for the second time.

(The feel of it is softer than he remembers; from hours before, smoother. _It’s the soap_ , he thinks. The soap in this house makes your hands soft.)

It doesn’t make your fingers tingle, though. That’s all this boy in the room.

(That’s all on Jason.)

“Fair enough,” he says and Tim folds the map, puts it back into his bag. “We can look for a car tomorrow. I’ve seen quite a few in quiet places around here,” Jason adds and Tim starts taking off his shoes, quietly, answers as he works on the knots.

“Sounds good,” he says and slips under the blankets, leaving his boots beside his bed, his nearly bare feet hidden under the warmth; it’s a language of trust.

(A language of feeling safe.)

“Let’s sleep,” Jason says and blows, softly, the room swallowed by the night, swiftly, as sudden as a gasp.

_Let’s._ Tim answers, within the range of his thoughts.


End file.
